


Recipe For Snow Angels

by Goodknight (orphan_account)



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Aged Up, Fluff, M/M, Sometimes I try to make jokes, hurt comfort, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Goodknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first step in making a snow angel is a trust fall. The next; to carve yourself beautiful. Jamie, clumsy but ardent, tries to help Jack through this healing process by supplementing it with a lot of bad jokes, adding generous amounts of dorky affection, and substituting 'rest and relaxation' with 'going on eccentric dates.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> in response to [ this ](http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2389.html?thread=5655125#cmt5655125) prompt on the kinkmeme. i hope you like it!

Jamie wondered, dully, how much it would cost to deep clean the carpets. How much it would cost to replace the carpets. How much it would cost to move out. He thought about his aunt in San Francisco, who used to make him wash her hardwood with an old mop, how he used to say ‘When I’m grown up I’ll never need to clean my house!’ and his aunt would say, ‘only if you’re rich, you won’t.’ Jamie thought about the sponges Jack had bought and tucked safely under the sink in a cabinet when he moved in a year ago. He remembered how he used to chuck them in the bin when they started getting grungy. He regretted that, somehow. He’d been regretting a lot of garbage in the past three hours.   
  
The time he’d chucked Jack’s torn Christmas sweater, all those times he’d deleted the blurred pictures of himself with his arm wrapped like a ribbon around Jack’s middle because they hadn’t turned out perfectly, hell, it had been only last week that he’d cleared room on the hard drive of his laptop by erasing all the jokingly edited selfies Jack had taken with his webcam. How he could have ever been so flippant, he couldn’t imagine. Now, the very thought of his boyfriend’s face being sucked into the recycling bin on his desktop like a vacuum, drowning in the nothingness of wherever the hell deleted files went, like Jamie bloody knew, was a wretch in his stomach.  
  
He excused himself with a wave to the charge nurse, who was not paying him any attention, to hurl in the bathroom.   
  
His arms were cold. His whole body felt like it was being pulled through a shredder at low speed. The hairs prickling along his skin rose in him a disjointed sort of anger, a ‘how dare you, Jamie Bennett, think you are uncomfortable?’ jumbling in his head. ‘How dare you, Jamie Bennett, feel so anxious? How dare you, Jamie Bennett, long for silly pictures when their very subject is lying lonely somewhere in this building?’   
  
He had been cooking dinner. Three hours ago. Somehow, even though Jack had been missing for two days, he still had the audacity to make himself penne and a salad. The pasta had been boiling in the largest pot in the house, the sauce sitting covered in the frying pan on low heat. Jamie had been picking at a bag of almonds and holding a beer. His eyes had been rimmed red. The refrigerator had a grocery list in Jack’s handwriting and a cloister of those stupid ‘fridge poetry’ magnets. Jack had always liked those. A week earlier he’d tried to make a sentence near the bottom. It said: ‘sweet noodle champagne is better with memories.’  
  
Then, things had happened very quickly, in the ugly way important things tend to happen.   
  
Jamie had jumped at a bang on the door, and shuffled out of the kitchen, through the living room, stepped over Jack’s worn canvas sneakers, and opened it, chain still attached for security.   
  
Behind the door was the hallway of the apartment, the next door neighbour’s number 27 door, and Jack.   
  
The stab of sickened pain Jamie had felt closing that door to pull off the chain had made him so weak-kneed he had begun to shake, fumble the chain for too many long seconds, yank at it like it was a plug in the bathtub, and as he fiddled he began to cry.   
  
Because Jack had not walked to his front door.   
  
Jack had been dropped there. His pale skin, usually tinted pink like ‘It’s a Girl!’ balloons and shadowed in perma-frost blue, seemed translucent and jaundice as a smoker’s finger tips.   
  
Jamie didn’t notice much else about Jack as he finally opened the door and wrapped his arms around him, only that he was ice-sculpture still and very much like rolled up parchment: brittle and curled in on himself at the edges, and that his colours were bleak, watered down, and that hugging him in that moment felt less like a reunion and more like a funeral.   
  
He had held him without seeing, without feeling, without thinking, and had choked on his sobs while he sat confused and stuck between joy and unbridled horror. Blood slid down Jack’s back onto the shoes lining the entryway. At some point he’d started shouting his upset, and a neighbour had peeked through her door and seen him, had called the police, and, well…  
  
Jamie wandered back to where he’d been sitting before, waiting to be allowed into Jack’s room. The charge nurse looked at him sympathetically before going back to her work. She’d offered him a sandwich from the staff fridge an hour earlier, but he’d felt too empty to eat it.   
  
So far, he’d spent most of his time in the hospital trying to offer to donate all his organs and all the blood in his veins to his boyfriend, and all the staff had said: ‘that’s not necessary, he’ll be alright,’ which was something they could say because Jack hadn’t been dumped mangled on their doorsteps. And they hadn’t felt the way Jack’s body slumped, broken and rag-doll floppy, pressed against their chests. And they didn’t love him.  
  
A misguided anger lingered in him towards the doctors for not letting him at least give Jack a skin graft or something, anything. He wanted to make up for what little he did before.   
  
All that time Jack was gone, he’d still kept up with his favourite shows. He’d still phoned friends. He’d said things like ‘he’ll show up and laugh at me for worrying.’ He hadn’t called the police until Jack had been missing for over 50 hours. He had only cried in short bursts, alone in the shower, or when he was lying alone late at night. He had refused to think about the possibilities, about what Jack’s disappearance could mean. He’d told himself he was just being optimistic, but the mantra of ‘he’s coming back; this can’t happen; this doesn’t happen to us; it’s not possible’ was really just naivety.   
  
And no one would let him make up for it. He was helpless in the hospital. Waiting.   
  
God, if he’d only known. He felt so guilty. Fluorescent lights above him flickered like an indecisive jury. What could he have done more? Why hadn’t he been out looking? Why, of all things, had he been making fucking pasta, sipping a beer, when Jack was delivered bloody and near-death to his apartment?  
  
He coughed dryly. He’d already cried out all his feelings, all his energy. His jumping legs felt numb and distant.  
  
Out of a side door a nurse emerged, with a lanyard around her neck and wavy brown hair tied in a tight ponytail. Jamie straightened, attentive, as she moved into the room.   
  
“Mr Bennett?”   
  
“Yes. That’s me. I’m that.” Jamie stood, nodding, his mouth twitching as though to smile before slipping back into neutrality; a sad twitch. Jamie’s grief-suppression face.   
  
“You can go in.” She said, nodding clinically. “He’s asleep.”   
“Asleep.”   
  
“That’s right, Mr Bennett.”  
  
“Jesus Christ.” Jamie took large breaths as he followed the nurse through a door. Inside was a little sink, a closet, and another door.   
  
“If you could please wash your hands.” She instructed.  
  
“Yeah, of course. Totally. Definitely.” He did. He could hardly believe he remembered how to turn a faucet at all. As he quickly pumped soap into his open palm, he whispered. “He’s okay.”   
  
The nurse made a reassuring little sound and opened the door while he rubbed his fingers dry with the hem of his t-shirt.   
  
And then there was Jack, lying frail and papery against a white bed, blue sheets and a thin blanket tucked in up to his chest. He looked flat. Jack, white haired, eyes closed, cheeks hollow and white, looked like a deflated angel.   
  
“Hey, Jack.” Jamie tried to say, but his words came out half raw, scratched against his closing throat. Tears dripped down his cheeks. He stepped hesitantly closer, nervous in the staunch room, and reached out for Jack’s still hand. The fingers were cold and light in his. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the other boy’s face, gentle in sleep, lips too pale, nose bandaged, skin scraped in sharp red streaks and bruised with purple flowers. “I’m so sorry.” Jamie whispered, crouching down, bending awkwardly closer. His chest swelled with feeling, with the words he couldn’t vocalise, overflowing as he was with relief, gut clenching with guilt and twisted with a heavy melancholy. “You’re here. I’m here. I’m right here. Oh my God, Jack.” He swallowed and his nose whistled. It was running. Jack’s hand was an anchor in his, so real and so fragile.   
  
“I’ll bring you some blankets for tonight in about a half hour.” Said the nurse from behind him, her voice quiet.  
  
“Thank you. For letting me stay.” Jamie rasped, running his thumb back and forth other the back of Jack’s hand.  
  
The nurse nodded. “Push the button up there by his head if you need me.” And then she was gone.   
  
Jamie sighed, reaching behind him to pull up a chair. “They said it’s not serious.” He started, inching his fingers up to Jack’s wrist, where an IV was pushed under his skin. “You got lucky.” A bitter, strained laugh. “You look just… Just fine.” He lied. “You look beautiful. No worries, right?” He cleared his throat, bobbing his head a little, wetting his lips, pressing himself against the edge of the bed. His fingers kept travelling up, to Jack’s bony shoulder, across his collar bone like a shaky-legged spider, to brush softly across his cheek, and finally to rub at his temple and push back his hair from his banged forehead. Jamie’s legs kept bouncing anxiously, as he looked worriedly at his boyfriend.   
  
“What…” He cradled Jack’s chin in his palm, lightly, barely touching, and stood up a little out of his seat to peer more closely at the clear shield over Jack’s left eye. A little trail of fresh blood was running like a miniature river along his lower eyelid. Jamie froze, panicked, said “Uh…” A few times, and then punched at the emergency call button with his pointer.   
  
The nurse hurried in, and saw him standing bent and open mouthed, and then looked at Jack.   
  
“His eye’s bleeding. It’s bleeding.” Jamie stammered, curling his fingers properly with Jack’s now, taking his hand like a life line. Oh fuck. Bleeding.   
  
“The left? Yes, that’s perfectly normal.”   
  
“What? That’s not normal! Where’s the doctor? That’s not normal.”  
  
“Honey, there’s nothing a doctor can do I can’t.” She paused. “He has sustained severe blunt trauma resulting in hyphema. It’ll bleed for a few days, and then heal normally.”  
  
“Oh. Right. Sorry. They told me that. Earlier. I’m sorry. I freaked out.”  
  
“It’s okay. I know it looks scary.”   
  
Jamie nodded and shot her a small, grateful smile, watching as she approached Jack and messed around with the IV and the patch, and wondered if she was putting on a show for him, so he’d feel like more was being done.   
  
They’d debriefed him on Jack’s injuries hours ago, not long after he’d finished talking to the police. He’d been angry and a little volatile, and probably really annoying to talk to.   
  
The first thing the doctor had said was: “He’s been very badly beaten.”   
  
And Jamie had said “No shit!” Among other things. Everyone in the waiting room had been silently watching him with the staunch, pitying, resigned looks of people who waited in hospitals. They had pretended not to listen. One young girl was shushing a baby. Jamie’s fingers had been digging into his scalp, scraping along the roots of his messy brown hair.   
  
“We are performing more tests, but it’s looking like there will be no need to operate.” The doctor had continued. There was an implicit ‘so calm down’ behind the doctor’s words. Jamie had thought he might be hyperventilating.   
  
“There’s no need for that.” The doctor then commented.   
  
“What?” Jamie had asked, biting his lip, lessening the death grip on his hair, and tucking his elbows into his sides. He’d thought ‘I probably look really stupid right now.’   
  
“He absolutely doesn’t need a heart transplant.”   
  
“Sorry?”   
  
“It was noble of you to offer, though, Mr Bennett. He’s going to be fine. He’ll make a full recovery.”  
  
Jamie didn’t remember anything he’d been shouting, but then he’d felt quite embarrassed, as he had no doubt been offering his innards as donations unprompted, and looked around offering tired, apologetic smiles to the other people in the room. “Can I see him?” He’d croaked, lowering his hands to tuck them under his armpits. His forehead had hurt, and he’d realised his eyebrows were hitched dramatically and a little painfully. He’d told himself to relax. He’s going to be fine.   
  
“Not yet, Mr Bennett. I’m sorry.”   
  
“Right.” Jamie had huffed out a breath. “I just…” He just wanted to see what he looked like. He just wanted to see him unscathed, with smooth, scar-free skin. He just wanted to touch the softness of his clean hair. He just wanted to take both his hands and feel them whole. He just wanted to squeeze him around the middle and hold him, bruise free. He just wanted to look into his eyes without them staring back at him blood shot and dripping.   
  
The doctor had let the silence permeate for a moment, understanding.   
  
And then the prognosis: Three fractured ribs, a broken wrist, traumatic brain injury, hyphema, two broken fingers, bruising, and several puncture wounds. A hairline fracture in his foot. Multiple strains. He hadn’t eaten since he’d disappeared.   
  
All of these things, apparently, were going to be ‘just fine.’  
  
When he’d been chasing Jack’s stretcher into the ambulance, he’d have never believed it. The sight of the blurred mess of pooling bright red around Jack’s head, the pulpy clutter of flesh that was Jack’s torn left side, the swelling, the garnet stained glass window that was his blood shot eye, the tangled nest of his white hair cloaked in old blood, the sharp scent of new wounds, and the baseline of rotting old ones had all seemed like harbingers of Jamie’s personal apocalypse.   
  
But now, as he settled into a stretcher, under the thin linen the nurse had brought him, next to Jack’s sedated form, drawing circles on the splotchy banged forearm, he could accept the reality: Jack had been hurt. But he was coming home.   
  
This was okay. Or, at least, close enough to okay that Jamie let himself fall asleep holding Jack’s hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Jamie took a deep breath before opening the apartment door.  Jack was standing next to him with eyes glazed over, arm in a sling, midsection bent, and wearing a war torn look; recently discharged. He was grave-yard silent with his ripped lower lip pushed forward, and he’d been quiet during the car ride too, tense and edgy. His ghostly white canvas face was post-modern abstract with pain and scrapes. Jamie ached, in love and in pity.

Jamie had tried supporting Jack, helping him walk and balance, but his fingers only irritated the cuts and bruises hidden under his clothes, and Jack protested with little sniffs and the occasional tight, distraught expression.

The hallway was eerie. The toes of Jamie’s trainers touched where Jack had lain only hours previously.

The lock clicked, and they entered their stained home, Jack fumbling and slow, Jamie with tightness in his throat when his shoes squeaked over the blood splatter. “You should lie down.” He whispered, stooping to untie Jack’s shoes for him. “I’ll get you some water, okay?” Pulled off one shoe, and then the other. “How are you feeling?”

“I…” Jack made a frustrated, high, hurt sound, like a drawn out hum. His whole body wobbled. He started to cry.

“No, sh, okay, it’s okay. Can you lean on me?”

“Can handle it m’self.” Jack mumbled in response, face screwed up. His steps looked agonising, and when he reached the bedroom, he fell to his knees with another frustrated groan. Jamie, who’d been circling him like a frightened, flitting bird, instantly dropped next to him and waited, overwhelmed.

“We’re almost there.” He reassured.

“I know!” Jack complained in a loud, water logged voice, confused, incapable, helpless. There was a bass drum of fear that came bundled with those things, a purposeless panic that buzzed like broken television static in all the places where he hurt most, telling his unresponsive, weak self to do something. To save itself. Jamie’s honey sweet voice and light, flickering hands registered only as dim annoyances. Jamie was a non-thing. Jack’s heart beat fast, and his breaths came fast, and his limbs didn’t move. They just hurt. His surroundings were a blur as he stumbled forward, at once knowing that he had to lie down on the bed and let Jamie elevate his head, and simultaneously ready to give up and curl up in a fetal position on the floor.

“Jack, I’m going to pick you up, okay? Just… I’m just going to lift you under the knees and arms. It’ll be okay. Then you can lie down. Just. This one last thing, alright?”

Jack whined sharply, but other than that, didn’t complain when Jamie hoisted him into his arms and settled him back down on their duvet. Jamie’s brow was shiny with nervous sweat, and his eyes were worried. Jack wanted to hug him, suddenly. Wanted him as close as possible. He squirmed with uncertain anxiety. “Jamie?” He asked, blowing controlled breaths while the other boy took his hand and nodded, ready to listen. “Stay here.”

“I will.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here.”

“It hurts a lot.” Jack laughed, stuttered on it, coughed once, and then exhaled sharply when it stung his chest. “I… I think I’m mad?”

Jamie smiled through a few leaked tears. “That’s… that’s okay.” He bounced with a little laugh as well. “You can be mad all you like, as long as you don’t get out of bed.”

“Mn.”

Jamie settled on the edge of the box spring, his hand going to brush through Jack’s hair. As time passed, Jack’s breathing began to even out and his eyes slipped closed. Jamie kissed him in the centre of his forehead, and then again on his cheek, as he watched him fall asleep. After a few minutes, he rose from the bed to go wipe up the mess in the entryway, despite Jack’s request.

He couldn’t stand the thought of blood drying and crusting over just down the hall. So, he took a sponge and a bucket, and a bottle of laundry cleaner from under the sink, and coated the beige carpet around the front door with water and soap until it was sopping. With rolled up sleeves, he scrubbed it, hard, until it scratched with a sound like sand paper on rough wood. He ground his teeth while he worked, and rubbed the sponge so forcefully against the carpet that it ripped along the bottom, blue-green pieces hanging off like stalactites.

He only straightened when bits of the sponge started falling off onto the floor, and walked back into the kitchen to toss it in the garbage.

The police must have turned his stove off, but the penne and the sauce were still sitting innocently in their pots on the burners, so he tossed those in the trash, too.

Then the apartment was still.

Someone had attacked his boyfriend.

He put his head in his hands and breathed, leaning against the counter. God. Fuck. ‘At least he’s here now,’ he reminded himself, shifting so his hip wasn’t pressed uncomfortably against the handle of the cutlery drawer. Safe now, out of harm’s way now. Recovering. Home.

An hour after Jack had fallen asleep, Jamie crept back into the room, carrying two bowls of chicken soup, Jack’s atropine prescription, and the bottle of Tylenol.

“Hey, Jack?” He called softly, sitting next to him. “Jack.”

Jack didn’t open his eyes, but he did make a noise of acknowledgement. 

“Medicine.”

“Yes.” Jack breathed, his uninjured hand uncurling. “Gimme all of it.”

Jamie shook his head while he rearranged the pillows, tucking an arm behind Jack’s back to help him sit up higher. “You can’t have much. Because of your hyphema.” He unscrewed the cap and took out a pill, popped it into Jack’s mouth, and then moved the shield to drip some of the atropine into his bloodied eye. “I’ll help you eat.”

“This sucks.” Jack’s voice was breathy and laboured, slick with suppressed sobs. He moved his shoulders and rearranged himself against the headboard until he was more comfortable, his good arm hanging limply. His fingers felt brittle, his limbs weak, and his whole body fragile. Weightless. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to fight a breeze if it tried to lift him away.

Jamie fed him spoonfuls of warm soup and sips of water, while Jack sat in resigned, numb melancholy. 

“Do you… wanna tell me what happened?” Jamie asked, after Jack had finished a quarter of the bowl, and started dozing again.

“You know.” Answered Jack, turning his face away.

“I know what the police told me. I know what the guys were charged with.”

“S’enough.”

Jamie’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t press any further, instead starting on his own soup. “Do you need anything?” He asked softly, hands wrapped around the bowl in his lap.

“Just stay with me.”  

Jamie set his dish on the bedside table and swung up to lie parallel to Jack in lieu of a response. Jamie with his head propped in this hand, and Jack raised up on throw pillows, they lay in the dusky darkness of the bedroom, a beam of sunlight crinkled over them from a crack in the closed curtains. Jack rustled closer until his nose ghosted Jamie’s neck, toes cold and gentle on Jamie’s shins.

“You can’t…” He mumbled. “I don’t…”

Jamie shushed him, putting a hand delicately on his hip, where he knew an angry bruise bloomed, the touch soft enough to be painless, but steady enough to be grounding.

-

On the Saturday morning Jack had gone missing, he and Jamie had been sitting on the couch watching the cartoons, Jack’s head resting comfortably on Jamie’s shoulder, legs curled up so his knees lay in Jamie’s lap, their fingers linked. Jack had been grinning at the little animated programme on the television, and at the warmth of Jamie’s knitted sweater against his side. He’d tilted his head up to press a tiny peck against his boyfriend’s jaw.

Jamie had asked, “What’re you doing?” In a smooth, half asleep voice.

Jack kept pressing his lips to his boyfriend’s skin, nose bumping against the slope where Jamie’s neck became his shoulder, “Hazard a guess.” Jack had chuckled.

“We are not making out to Spongebob.”

“Aren’t we?” Jack had laughed lightly, his voice tainted with feigned confusion; and then he’d nudged Jamie with his shoulder. “C’mon. I’m bored.”

“You could vacuum.”

Jack had pulled a face, sticking his tongue out. “I thought we had a deal?”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. You clean, I stand around looking good! It’s to both our benefit.” He’d waggled his eyebrows, in the dexterous way that always made Jamie laugh.

“I… I can’t even find a reason to rebuke that.”

Jack had laughed then too, rough and open, loud and honest.

Jamie had always loved the sound of Jack’s emotions; whether he was whooping in excitement, giggling with good humour, or gasping in happy surprise. His voice was sticky sweet and crackling, like snow-chilled syrup.

They’d kissed, open mouthed but chaste, Jamie’s hand splayed over Jack’s lower back and Jack’s fingers tangled like weeds in Jamie’s hair. He could feel that Jack’s lips were quirked in a smile, and he was smiling too. And they made out to Spongebob. And it was great.

Jack had pulled away first, mouth open the tiniest bit, eyes hooded, cheeks and ears flushed rosewater-perfume pink, back arched so his chest was bumping Jamie’s, and Jamie had reached up to tuck some of that wild, white hair behind one of his flushed ears, and then kissed him again, long and slow, one last time before Jack had to get up for work.

“I’ll see you at 4h00.” Jack had promised, as he pulled on a sweatshirt. Jamie had followed him towards the closet, leant against the wall while Jack pulled on his shoes.

“Bye, Jack.”

“Love you!”

-

The early nap left Jamie feeling heavy-limbed and drowsy. He woke with his face buried in Jack’s floppy hair, one arm slung over the other’s shoulders. When he shifted back, he saw Jack’s eyes were open, cloudy and matte, and he was making little whistles with every breath.

“Hey.” He swallowed around his sleep, and lifted his arm away. “You’re warm.”

“No kidding.” Jack didn’t laugh, though he usually would have. He sounded gurgling and smoothed-stone thick, his consonants dropping with extra effort.

Jamie sat up, wiped the sand from his eyes, and pressed the back of his hand to Jack’s head. “Do you have a fever?” He asked.

“No. Go away.”

“I think you can have more atropine.”

Jack whined, and hooked his leg over Jamie’s with a groan. “I don’t want that.”

“I’m getting mixed signals here.” Jamie murmured, easing himself back down and letting Jack cling weakly to him, and pulled the blanket off the bed. Usually, Jack would kick it off while he slept, leaving Jamie to wake sometime early morning, cold and irritable, and toss it back over them both. Jack preferred sleeping cold.

“I don’t know.” Jack whispered. “I don’t know…”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know!” Jack’s voice rose suddenly, high pitched, and Jamie noticed that he was crying again, and looking startled.

“What don’t you know? Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He soothed, palm shooting up to cradle Jack’s jaw. He quickly pulled away again when Jack flinched, wincing. “Sorry, sorry.”

Jack wheezed, looked up and him shiftily, “There’s something… I just can’t. Ugh. I feel like I want something. But I don’t… I don’t know.” Restlessly, he tried to rearrange his position on the pillows, uncomfortable.

“I can make dinner. Maybe you need to eat. And I’ll get your atropine. We can watch a movie.”

Jack nodded, settling back down and breathing in frustrated puffs. “Morphine would be nice.”

Jamie chuckled good naturedly at that, lifting his hand, more slowly this time, to caress Jack’s face, and leant in to touch his nose to Jack’s. “Sorry about that.” When the other boy’s only reaction was to flutter his eyelashes and relax, he gave him a peck on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love pain killers.”

Jamie really laughed then, and swung out of bed to go make dinner. “I’ll put the television on, so it’s not so quiet.”

“Thank you.” Jack whispered. “Hurry.”

Jamie did hurry, putting the evening news on low volume in the living room and popping a store bought pizza in the oven. When he was crushing the box up to put it in recycling, Jack’s strained voice called his name from the other room. Several times. Impatient. Panicked?

He poked his head around the door frame, an oven mitt still on. “Still here!”

Jack’s chest swelled with an amused snort, which was immediately followed by a groan and “Just checking.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say how appreciative I am of the kind feedback this story has gotten so far. It's very inspiring and encouraging to know people are reading it and enjoying it. It's fun for me to write, so it's nice to hear that it's good to read as well. I hope you like this early chapter.

The news report on Jack’s disappearance had only run a few seconds, flashed a picture of his driver’s license picture (Jamie had been there when that had been shot. It was the only photo of Jack where he wasn’t grinning stunningly, and it had taken several retakes to capture the necessary neutral expression. Jamie hated the photo. A lot) and then ended with a plea to contact the local police department if he was spotted.

The news report on Jack’s attack was much more intimately covered. There were mug shots of the perpetrators: two displeased looking men with sunken eyes. They were charged with ‘causing grievous bodily harm with intent.’ The reporter described Jack’s experience as ‘tragic’ twice before Jamie wandered into the living room to turn it off.

Jack was still spending most of his time lying in bed, but he’d sometimes follow Jamie into whatever room he was working in and hover. His eye had stopped bleeding, and his bruises had all changed colours like grotesque mood rings. Jack had insisted on putting band aids over the cuts on his face, and Jamie had relented, because honestly, he didn’t know anything better. So there were sometimes Superhero themed bandages peeling off Jack’s chin and across the bridge of his nose.

“It’s Friday.” Jamie greeted when Jack slunk into the kitchen. He used to wake up a good hour before Jamie did, but he was sleeping in until noon now.

Jack puffed his cheeks goofily. It must have made his face sore. “It okay if we skip this week?” He asked. His hand was resting lightly on his stomach. One of Jamie’s grubbier college sweatshirts hung off his left shoulder, so it bugged out over his left side. He’d been wearing it for a few days, but Jamie didn’t try to take it away from him. Jack didn’t own any clothes baggy enough not to irritate the wound that had turned the area from under his arm down to the top of his hip bone into mince-meat.

“No, yeah. I was just thinking, if I went shopping, I could probably make a suitable replacement?”

Jack smiled lopsidedly. “Hmm. Chef Jamie rears his handsome head!”

Jamie laughed, crossing the kitchen to kiss Jack good morning. “Are you going to let me get away to buy ingredients?” He asked, only half-jokingly. So far, he’d happily stayed in the house, to make sure Jack didn’t fall while he manoeuvred around the rooms. And Jack had kept asking him not to go anywhere.

Jack reached stiffly around Jamie for the Tylenol which sat in an open plastic container on the counter, swallowing two dry. “I think I can take care of myself for an hour.” His smile built and fell in a wave, like he was thinking maybe he couldn’t, but Jamie nodded.

He’d already added to the little grocery list Jack had written before, he was already sort of excited. For their first date, Jamie had tried to make lasagna and burnt it so badly they’d had to team up shaking towels at it before Jamie remembered that fire alarms could be turned off with the reset button. Afterwards, all their dates had been at restaurants; and the more serious their relationship became, they more they slipped into a routine. Now, even though it was established that they were both capable of sort-of-kinda cooking, it was Friday tradition to go out to a new place.

“I’ll have my phone.” Jamie promised, grabbing the keys from atop the fridge.

“Yeah. Sure thing. I’ll sext you.”

“That would be really not sexy.”

“I think I could make groceries sexy.”

“Jack.”

“Do you dare me?”

“No, I don’t! I don’t dare you at all! I dare you not to.”

Jack winked and spun around a little, clumsily, tenderly, a mockery of his pre-incident antics. “Get out there, already, stud! I’ll be waiting. Doing who knows what.”

“Napping?”

“Oh shut up.”

Jamie laughed, and leant forward to kiss Jack again, slipping past him towards the door. “I would have gone while you were sleeping, but I didn’t want you to wake up to an empty house.” He explained on his way to the door. He did a little jump over the spot where most of the blood had been.

“My saviour.” Jack said softly, watching him pull his coat on. And then, when Jamie reached for the door handle, “I think I’ll come.”

“Jack, you’re supposed to rest. I’ll be fast, I promise.” Jamie replied, just as softly; sympathetic. Jack had always been quick to get lonely. He could understand that he wouldn’t want to be alone now.

“No, I think I’ll come.”

But maybe not to this extent.

“Are you sure? You’re not too sore?”

“Jamie. Please.” Jack pleaded, shifting closer.

Jamie sighed.  Jack was always hard to refuse. “Put pants on first.”

“Right.”

-

At first, Jack had thought his jaw was broken. He had bitten down, hard, on his cheek, while he was stumbling, and watched dazedly as tiny drips of blood darkened the sidewalk. He’d spat, to get it out of his mouth, and straightened only to be shoved down again. His hands had shot up to cover his head and he shifted his weight back to try to balance amid the confusion.

He had been walking to work. Hood up, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching his feet crunch deeply into a new snowfall, he’d turned into a section of parkland, between dead trees and frosted shrubs, when someone had grunted “that’s him,” and something had slammed into the side of his face.

Jack had coughed in the hazy morning chill, sneakers slick on the frozen grass. Hands reached out to him, jostling and pulling at his coat. Fingers latched into his hair and yanked him forward. He’d sniffed and breathed hard and tried to root himself to the ground, his legs numb with invisible, steady cold under his jean capris, and someone tripped him up so he fell hard on his knees. A palm pressed determinedly into his back, forcing him down, until his cheek was scraping frozen dirt and grit, and voices like hurricanes swarmed above him.  

When he was hauled up again, sore and split, lifted entirely off the ground and then put back on his feet like a marionette, he saw with strange sharpness the grey-silence of the street, the only parked car a matte black Ford Escape, the silver post-dawn sky filled with gentle snowflakes. Blood was sticky on his face and bare calves, warm out of his nose and on his lips.

He had heard on TV that, when assaulted, one should scream. And fight. And not get in the attackers’ vehicle.

Jack was quiet, slacked jawed, uncomprehending, submissive, and disoriented, when his shoulder slammed into the window lever in the backseat.

Hindsight’s always 20/20.

-

Jack was awkward getting into Jamie’s off-white Sedan, slow and strained, and sitting in the passenger’s seat was dystopian. He’d had time to feel along the edges of their shared apartment; fingers open wide, relearning it, and peek under the bathroom cupboard at the familiar mess of bubbling bath soaps and half full bottles of shampoo. He’d had time to push the waves of nausea he’d felt, at first, when Jamie’s shadow appeared from behind him like a faceless ghost and to pad uncertainty after his boyfriend into every room, only to find that the ceilings merged with the walls in just the same way they always had. The place was unchanged. The carpets tickled, beige and soft and sharp when he stumbled and grazed his knees. The lamps they used in lieu of overhead lights shone with the same artificial orange. He was the only thing different. When he looked in the mirror, it was clean and rectangular in the same way, but the boy staring back at him was not.

The car, too, still had the same lingering smell. An old coffee mug was sitting in the cup holder, a wrapper on the backseat. Jack breathed a long sigh and popped the glove box to take out his sunglasses as Jamie pulled away from their building, and leant back against the headrest.

“Alright, Walmart.” Jamie mumbled to himself as he merged onto a main road.

“Where all the top chefs buy their five star ingredients.”

Jamie’s laugh was always like a rich, lilting murmur. It suited his bright eyes and his handsome face. He drove through city blocks with his hands needlessly quick and moving along the steering wheel, the only evidence of the little anxiety that had settled over them both since Jack had been discharged.

Jack reached over to put a hand on Jamie’s when he was shifting gears, and Jamie stilled. The edges of his mouth were tense. Jack had a headache and a sick twist in his stomach, and his chest was a tight iron prison for his ribs, and he still had to manually quell the jump in his bones when their skin brushed, but he was good at it, and Jamie’s hand felt like lukewarm water and the foam of stress-balls.

When they arrived at Walmart, Jamie jostled a cart out the chute and handed Jack the list to read off. “If there’s anything else you want, we can get that too.” He said, wandering into the produce section. “What’s first?”

“Strawberries. Can I ride in the cart?”

Jamie shook his head, amused. “I’m pretty sure they’d kick us out.”

“It says ‘no children in cart.’ I see a loophole.” Jack insisted, smiling up at his boyfriend, and swerved towards him as though to knock shoulders, stopping just short to walk with his shoulder brushing Jamie’s upper arm. “It’d be fun!”

“Yeah, until you got stuck in there.”

“Just because I’m in a sling doesn’t mean I can’t handle some cart surfing.”

“Does.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“We should get raspberries, too.”

“Just buy everything.” Jack suggested as Jamie tossed in two plastic containers of fruit.

Jamie made a sound of acknowledgment, but swung the cart out of the aisle, towards the vegetables. “I want to make a salad.”

“Boring.”

“Shut up, Jack!” He laughed. “Don’t question the cook.”

“I’ve never heard that one before.” Jack raised his eyebrows, looking mock-contemplative. “Does it override ‘kiss the cook’?”

“No. Definitely not.” Jamie responded, lowering his voice. “That importance of kissing the cook can never be disproven.”

Jack stuck his tongue out. “We’ll see.”

A tall, dark haired man with a shadow of stubble on his chin turned the corner into the aisle where they were bickering, basket in hand. Jack felt suddenly as though someone had dumped ice cubes down the back of his shirt, liquid panic leaking from the top of his head to his fingertips, dripping like nitrogen, and he stared as the man pulled a bottle of dressing from the shelf. His breath was taken from him, and he locked up. He felt small. He felt _scared_.

Jamie put a hand on his arm, and asked: “Hey, something wrong?” as the man started to walk away, Jack’s eyes tracking him, distrusting.

The feeling lingered, settled like an arthritis creak. “Uh. Yeah.” Jack answered, still watching the place where the person had disappeared, “I just… It’s nothing.” He looked down, at the dirty scuffed floor, at the shoes Jamie had tied for him, at the ripped hems of his old jeans. The fluorescents blinked quickly above and their reflections shone below, tinted grey by his shades. The grocery store was large around him.

“Let’s go get cookies.” Jamie offered, in a soft voice, linking his fingers with Jack’s. “And then I’ll just get the stuff we need for tonight and we can go.”

“Sounds good.” Jack nodded, letting Jamie lead him to the snack aisle and watching his boyfriend dump Oreos, wafers, and soft sugar cookies into their cart.

“What are we making?” He asked when Jamie sunk into uncertain silence. “Or is it a surprise?”

Jamie blinked owlishly down at him, cleared his throat. “Chicken Piccata and Strawberry Shortcake.” He answered. And then, with a small chuckle, “And I’m having salad, because I’m not five.”

Jack smiled and squeezed his hand. “That sounds great. This is going to be as good as going out, anyway.” He commented lightly.

“Yeah.” Jamie agreed. “This does just fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jamie cooked with his iTunes shuffling through his favourite alternative albums, the volume soft. On the stove sizzled chicken in oil, lit by a little yellow lamp. The dining room table, visible through the open doorway, was illuminated by candle light; a favourite of Jack’s. He and Jamie often lived in gentle oranges and slow, brown gradient shadows. It left the house feeling simple and fantastical, somehow, like a fairy’s hovel, rich and organic and homely.

At the table, Jack was flicking his finger in a little golden flame, lent forward with his arms folded, and blowing in tiny puffs on the wicks so their fires danced. The highlights on his face twisted, receding and then leaping up like tides, colouring his pale skin and turning his led crystal irises into a soft glass. Jack was always graceful, even folded and drooping over the dark wood in his hoodie, dainty wrists glacier white peeking out of the cavernous deep dark of the sleeves. Even drowning in fabric and foggy with sleep and bitter nausea, he was like a frozen ballerina. The lilt of his lips was still playful, just captured.

Stringy guitar and smooth crescendos, the tangy scent of lemon juice on the stove, and Jack highlighted by lowlight left Jamie feeling sanded at the edges and carbonated: bubbly-gentle.

“I really missed you.” He whispered, pushing at the food with his spoon while he watched Jack play with the candles. “I didn’t even notice how much I missed you.” He paused. “I’m dumb.”

Jack didn’t hear him in the other room and kept fidgeting, his profile framed by Jamie’s library of old, thick books: fantasy, lore, mythology, myth, and history tomes, well read and lovingly dog eared. While Jamie was staring, Jack turned his head, propping it on his hand, and smiled at him. “I know I’m easy on the eyes...” He commented, thick eyebrows lifting. “But we don’t really need a repeat of the first time we tried this.”

Jamie sputtered on a laugh, both at being caught and at Jack’s phrasing. “I wasn’t looking at you. I was checkin’ out ‘Greek Inspiration in Roman Mythology.’ Might take it to bed tonight.”

“Oh, Christ, you are such a nerd.” Jack laughed tightly and shortly, his breath hitching as the sound stuttered and died with a pained rattle, and rolled his lips awkwardly, apologetically, when Jamie’s eyes widened in concern.

“It’s done, if you’re hungry.” Jamie said instead of voicing the obvious. He _knew_ Jack was probably aching, could see the way his silver bell eyelashes flitted against his cheeks as he blinked to keep his tired eyes open, could see him take long shuddering gasps as though trying to breathe while being subtly choked when he thought Jamie wasn’t paying attention.

Jack nodded with a fraction of his old enthusiasm, smiling sheepishly as Jamie set chicken in front of him, and then served himself both the Picatta and a dark salad. He went back into the kitchen to pull an already open bottle of red wine from the fridge and poured them both half a glass when he sat opposite Jack.

“This is romantic.” Jack grinned, lifting his to clink his glass against Jamie’s, which still sat on the table. “To Jamie’s awesome cooking skills!”

“Don’t make toasts without me.” Jamie chuckled, taking a bite of his salad. “You know there’s a proper toasting procedure?”

“Let me guess: if you do it wrong, you get seven years of bad luck.”

Jamie shook his head, “No, but that would be more interesting.”

“You think _all_ rules would be more interesting if you were cursed by breaking them.” Jack smiled fondly, picking up a piece of chicken with his fork and biting into it while it hung.

Jamie thought he looked overwhelmingly precious. Sometimes, Jack shocked him like a cold snap.

With tenderness, conservative and quirky, Jack picked at his food. His appetite was almost non-existent, but his smile stubbornly stayed. Jamie wondered if he hurt all the way into his teeth.

After Jack had leant back, skinny arm framing his plate like a castle moat, fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of his wine glass, clearly finished, Jamie pushed his chair back with a thick scrape and stood, his own glass in hand. “A toast.” He started. “To Jackson Overland Frost.”

Jack’s face crinkled with contained amusement, and his shoulders bowed, almost shyly.

“I’m giving you meaningful eye contact.” Jamie continued, and Jack spit out a stab of a laugh. “And standing with good posture.”

“Aren’t you impressive.” Jack beamed.

“Shush. Toastee doesn’t talk. Anyway, to Jack. Let’s see. Uh. When I first met Jack, I fell instantly in love.” Jamie nodded resolutely when Jack made a face at him. “With whoever designed your jeans.” He finished.

“Aww. That’s sweet. Thanks, dear.”

“Now cheers me.”

“Yes, professor posh.”

“A chef _and_ a professor? God, I’m talented.” Jamie quipped as he stretched across the table to chink his cup against Jack’s.

Jack made a disapproving sound. “Here’s the dilemma, though: am I your naughty student or am I… whatever it is chefs bang?”

“Hm. You present an interesting… intellectual debate point?” Jamie was laughing, sitting back at the table with wine in one hand. He’d reached across the table to cradle Jack’s fingers in the other.

They watched each other for some seconds, over the flickering candles, with a pretty string concerto playing quietly from the kitchen, where Jamie had already put sponge cake, strawberries, and whipped cream in little bowls for dessert. Jack’s complex smile broke, and he blurted, “I thought I’d never see you again. You asked what happened a few days ago. That was the worst thing that happened.”

Jamie was stunned for a moment, and Jack shifted, blinking fast. “Oh God, Jack.” Jamie said finally, squeezing Jack’s hand when it twitched as though to pull away.

“Sorry, I… that was a dumb thing to say. Right now. We were having fun.”

“No, no, God, no… No, Jack, I…” Jamie’s jaw felt tight, but his lips hung open in a stupefied daze. He thought: ‘You total ass, Jamie Bennett. You knew things couldn’t be this easy.’ And then, guiltily, ‘Oh my God you did not just call these past few days easy. You selfish prick. You unsympathetic degenerate.’ Lost for words, he slid his glass back onto the table and stood again, this time to walk around and wrap a shaky arm around Jack’s bruised shoulders, and bury his nose in the thick, cotton puff of his hair, breathing in the scent of nectarine shampoo and sickness. “I’m so sorry.” He whispered, when Jack leant his cheek against his chest. Jamie’s eyes slid shut. He could feel the bumps where Jack’s bones peaked, and when he lifted his other arm to carefully loop it around his boyfriend’s waist, it closed around what felt like an empty sweater, Jack slight as a porcelain vase.  

Jack was silent and vibrating, and Jamie realised he must have been crying. Jack had cried a lot since coming home; usually in desperation when he couldn’t lift himself off the couch or wash his own hair, didn’t have the strength to eat or to pull open the refrigerator door. This was different. This was quiet and resolved.

“I just…” He hiccoughed, and Jamie could picture his eyes wide and confused, pink rimmed. “It’s a lot.”

Jamie kissed the top of his head, to show that he was paying attention, that he could at least manage that. Jack was silent for some minutes more, head tucked into Jamie’s collar, breathing evening out, good arm clutching at his t-shirt. “I’d kinda still like that shortcake.” He said softly after a time.

“Right. I’ll get it.” Jamie agreed, looking down at Jack, who had sunk sideways in his chair and molded himself like melting wax to Jamie’s front.

Jack sighed, shifting back, eyes sweeping over the lain out table. “I liked this.” He said; face wet and shining, posture defeated. “Now we’ve both ruined a date.”

Jamie shook his head, slowly unravelling his arms, sliding his hands along the fabric of the sweatshirt Jack was wearing as he straightened, reluctant to let go. “Not at all. Just having you here makes it perfect.” He kissed Jack softly on the jaw taking both their plates into the kitchen. When he returned with the cakes, he put one on the table and the other in his lap and pulled his chair round closer so his knobbly knees brushed the sides of Jack’s thighs.

“You have low standards.” Jack muttered, grinning facetiously as he swiped a finger through the whipped cream.

“You just exceed expectations.”

-

Dusk had always been Jack’s favourite. It was murky and subtle, gentle and chilled. It seemed kind. It touched rooftops with tiny sunlight that didn’t burn his skin or sting his eyes, and was thin enough that the pocket-watch face of the moon smiled through the darkening day. In midwinter, Jack could sit outside unprotected and feel the greyness of a neutral world around him. It had been dusk throwing white-noise shadow patterns across the floor when he had woken up, bleary and stiff with hurt, in a simple room. The high window was framed by peaks of old snow, flat and dirty and thick. Against one of the dust kissed white walls was a large wooden picture frame, and next to it was an upright mirror with peeling stickers along its edges. From the ceiling hung a fan and a light fixture with a single light bulb, and a golden chain with a little fake diamond hanging off the end. The closet door had been unhinged.

The silence pushed with hard hands.

When Jack had lifted his head off the scratchy carpet his vision had swum, and as he shoved himself upright the room sparkled with white blurs. Stains like large pennies blotted the beige carpet around him. He put a hand to his head and wiped at dried blood; sniffed, and tasted copper on his tongue. He felt calm; disconnected, looking down at his raw rubbed hands. He could remember knocking his temple against a cup holder when he’d been pushed to the floor of a stranger’s car. And he could remember bits of being jumped. But that had been morning, that had been hours ago.

His first clear thought was ‘time sure flies.’ His next was, ‘I’ve probably missed dinner and pissed off Jamie.’ After that, he wondered without concern if he was going to die, since he was dizzy and bruised and lost.

He had stumbled to his feet then, finding he’d twisted his ankle hard and that his wrist was droopy and shocked and probably broken. His face felt like hamburger meat. Limbs slow, he moved to look in the mirror with an odd fascination, and saw himself pale and waif-like and painted cherry. Then, he lumbered towards the door and tried to open it, but was not surprised when it was locked. His calm became colder, numbing, and he limped to the window only to find it just low enough to fold his fingers over the sill.

With sudden agitation, he scrambled his fingernails across it, lifted himself on his toes in his wet shoes, and tried to touch the glass. His fingers couldn’t pull him high enough, his wrist screamed, his chest heaved, and, inspired by his new goal, his desperation rose like a fed fire. With a frustrated sound, he dropped back down and paced towards the door again, yanking at the knob, and then turned with shivers jumping up his arms to pace around, investigate the closet for an exit and run his palms over the walls.

Predictably finding nothing, he stopped in the centre of the tiny room, coughing wetly a few times while he wondered what to try next, before going back to the window. The quiet kept telling him to be quiet too, musky over his ears, so he was tight lipped and wild eyed as he tried to scramble up the wall, careful not to let his sneakers squeak against the smooth surface. He knew instinctively that he shouldn’t call out asking for someone to help; that no one would.

With a laborious push, he managed to haul himself high enough to lay his forearm across the sill and look outside, fingers curling as he struggled to stay up. It was snowing. His arm shook with over-exertion, and he slipped back down to the floor, drained, and rested his forehead against the wall to breathe.

Jamie would have been tall enough to clamber up and out, and probably smart enough build a set of stairs so he wouldn’t need to. Jamie would have lifted Jack and pushed him outside into the slow snowfall and said, ‘nothing to worry about.’

Thinking about Jamie made him scared; the ruddy yellow of his previous daze and the spike of his quick panic fading into something ugly and frightening as night fell. Hysteria as wide and navy-broad as an ocean kept him from sleeping; sharp shade shapes stretched like growing hands across the floor and walls as Jack sat gingerly under the window. The room was unpleasantly cold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone who has offered comments or kudos enough <3 I love you guys. Also, I'm starting exams this week, so I don't know how that will affect posting. Hopefully it'll stay weekly, but please understand that if I'm late, that's why.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about how late this is, and even more sorry to say that I expect the next update won't be timely at all. I'm really really busy for the entire summer :c I will try my best; but please don't expect anything out of me. As always, I love and appreciate your feedback and readership, and you in general. <3

Jack woke on top of the duvet, twisted in the sheets, with an arm hanging off the mattress. He could hear the sound of the shower and a low drone of voices from the television in the living room as he lay with his eyes closed, injured fingers resting lightly on his chest, listening to the sounds of the morning. With a stuttering yawn and a tired groan, he rolled out of bed and walked with dragging feet down the hall towards the bathroom to slip inside.

Jamie was singing, smooth and thick and talentless: beautiful. Jack looked quickly at the foggy mirror, where only his general shape was visible, glanced at the pink and brown towels on the rack, before padding forward across the damp tile.

With a sharp tug, beaming so his smile stretched from one tired eye to the other, he pulled back the curtain.

“Oh my God…  Jack!” Jamie whipped around, holding a bottle of shampoo in one hand, the other bracing him against the wall.

“Morning!” Jack greeted.

Jamie said “uh” and looked at him sidelong, incredulously, shoulders jumping with the start of a laugh. “Morning?”

“I just came to check in on you.” Jack shifted, faux bashfully.

“Right. That makes sense.” Jamie took his hand off the wall and started washing his hair, still looking bemusedly at his toothily grinning boyfriend. “Did you want to join me, or were you just planning on standing there?”

“I haven’t got a bag for my wrist.” Jack answered. “Just woke up.”

“Okay. Just standing, then.”

Jack looked sheepish for a moment before sparkling mischievously and sitting on the lip of the tub, twisting so he could look up at Jamie. “No. Sitting.”

“Oh, good, that’s much better.” Jamie quipped, laughing and flicking a bit of soap at Jack’s cheek.

“Wow. You got me dirty.”

“Uh huh.” Jamie ducked his head back, rinsing the bubbles off his head. He stood under the spray, letting water run down his legs for a few minutes. Jack sat with his chin in his hand, eyes half lidded and unfocused, the little bit of suds shimmering like a speck of glitter on his face.

Jamie turned off the water and reached over Jack’s back for a towel, which he wrapped around his waist before stepping out, turning to face his voyeur and peck him on the lips. “I was thinking it might be nice to walk around Seymour today.” He suggested, still bent forward so their noses touched.

“The garden down the highway?” Jack asked, closing his eyes.

“Mhm.  They have ice sculptures along the main trails in off season. I think you’d like it.”

Jack nodded, and then rested his forehead against Jamie’s. “I have a doctor’s appointment though. Maybe after?”

“Yeah, definitely. The drive’s long, so we can plan to go early tomorrow.”

“Or I guess we could skip it.”

“No, that’s-“

Jack flicked his face up and kissed Jamie, softly, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. “We could skip it.” He repeated. “I want to skip it.”

“I’ll feel guilty.”

“Not your fault. I’m persuading you.”

“Ah. Hm. Okay, then.” Jamie breathed, tilting his head so Jack could kiss him properly. He braced himself with one hand against the tub next to him, tucking the other into the curl of hair at the nape of the Jack’s neck.

Jack wrapped his arm around Jamie’s shoulders, pulling him down, pressing his fingertips into the wet dip of his collar. With Jamie warm and close he grew quickly breathless and pulled back breathing heavily.

Jamie cleared his throat, smiling, while Jack caught his breath, his hands moving to caress the other man’s back. “I should get dressed.” He suggested, unmoving, continuing to draw spirals along relaxed shoulder blades.

“Objection.” Jack snorted.

“And maybe we shouldn’t do that.” The brunette continued.

“Wow, what? Double objection!”

“You’re really winded.”

“Not winded enough.” Jack sniggered, tracing Jamie’s jaw with his fingertips, puffing hot air against his chin.

Jamie laughed, kissed him again, briefly, and took several quick, scurrying steps back when Jack leant forward to try and deepen it. “Nope. No. I’m getting dressed. Sorry; you’re panting like an asthmatic.”

Which was true: Jack’s chest was rising deeply, slow and long, like he wasn’t getting enough air to satisfy some sort of oxygen craving. He resented it. Jamie looked on the cusp of cheerful and worried, sopping with his lips red, looking at him like he thought he might collapse. Jack hadn’t been ignorant to the way Jamie’s eyes constantly flickered to his sling or the dying bruises down his neck. He’d been trying not to be too obvious in his hurt, but Jamie was still worrying himself over it. And that sucked.

He sighed. “In 6-8 weeks we are having so much sex.”

-

Seymour was a long stretch of beach two hours north of the city, coated in smooth stones, rounded rainbow glasses, and jagged rock growths like look out towers. Grass grew only a few metres from the shore, and the coastline quickly became green and forested. The gardens were a popular tourist attraction, as was the seaside castle resort they surrounded. During the winter months, the trees were dressed in faerie lights and solid snow forts were built in the frosted over fields. An ice sculpture competition, an outdoor skating rink, and a festive café kept the place open even after the beach was too cold for sunbathing and the flowers in the garden died under the late October snow drifts.

Jack, who taught 3rd grade at a small Elementary school and led camps part-time over the holidays, had been there once with his class and twice with the summer adventure camp. He remembered it being pleasantly cool, pretty, and busy.

When Jamie pulled into the parking lot, however, it was almost empty. Jack tugged his road trip blanket off from over his shoulders and tossed the bag of chips he’d had on his lap into the backseat while Jamie walked around to open his door.

The air was dry and bitter, the kind of cold that penetrated woolen mittens and toques, which was probably why few others had parked near the trails. Jack manoeuvred out of the car and tucked his arm around Jamie’s elbow, linking their fingers and settling himself against his side. From between the trees blinked soft coloured halogen lights, illuminating the ice formations that dripped from tree boughs and swirled in delicate patterns over the flower beds. Together, they walked through the new snow, under a frozen wooden arch, and into the garden.

As they approached the stream that ran through the resort property, a few steps from the trailhead, the Twilight Zone theme song started playing from Jamie’s pocket. He stopped just before the bridge that stretched over the creek and fished out his phone. “Dr Schor’s calling.” He said, raising his eyebrows pointedly and showing Jack his cell phone screen.

“Just ignore him.” Jack suggested, nudging closer.

Jamie huffed. “I actually feel really bad.” He admitted; paying no mind to Jack’s frustrated pouting.

“I don’t. I’m already eye-shield and atropine free. The appointments are just boring check-ups, like, ‘Have you jammed any sharp things into your retina lately? No. Trouble seeing? No more than usual. Alright great, bye.’ I’d rather spend time with you.”

“Yeah.”

Jack unhooked their hands and took the phone out of Jamie’s palm, silencing it and sliding it back into the front of Jamie’s jeans. “Don’t look like that.” He scolded, taking him by the arm again and starting to walk down the path.

“I think this might just be my face.”

Jack sniffed, smiling. “Sorry. It’s lovely. Very sexy.”

“You’re a bit of a jerk.” Jamie teased in a lilting voice, his gaze playful. “I’m already intimated by your stunning good looks, no need to rub it in.”

“Well, you won’t make out with me.” Jack explained matter-of-factly. His face was turning dust pink at the compliment. “So looks aren’t getting me anywhere, are they?”

“Oh, are we still sore about that?”

“Yeah, we’re still sore.”

Jamie was silent then, looking off to the side at the mounds of snow covering a cluster of rose bushes. “Uh. Maybe we should get some hot chocolate and find an arbour to sit on.”

“Yeah, and in the mean time I’ll add walking to the list of things I’m apparently not cut out for.” Jack snorted sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Jamie backpedaled, his voice rising. “I just… you’re hurt and you’re missing an appointment. And I wanted to go on a nature walk of all strenuous things, so I’m sort of regretting this. Jack, I’m sorry, I know you can handle it, and you’d tell me if it was a problem, but… you’re supposed to be in bed, and I’m enabling you, so I still feel like an ass!”

“You always feel like an ass.” Jack reasoned “I was kidding, Jamie, lighten up! You’re being amazing. You know I can’t handle staying still all day, anyway. I appreciate this. I just want you around; that helps, okay?”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry.”

Jack nodded, knocking Jamie lightly in the back of head with his glove. “You wanted to go out and so did I, so stop brooding and start having fun!”

“Aye aye.” Jamie mumbled, as Jack stepped in front of him, rose on his toes and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Now, let’s find those ice sculptures.”

Jamie grinned sheepishly and let Jack tug him weakly down the path, past information signs and looming coniferous trees with empty birdhouses hanging from their bare branches. They threaded along the trail for a few slow minutes and emerged at a clearing, where a small collection of sparkling ice figures stood surrounded by thick rope and ‘Do Not Touch’ signs, arranged in front of the resort’s café. Jack paused in front of them, looking on appreciatively, and Jamie circled his arms around his middle, encouraging him to lean back against his chest. It was comfortable, until Jack squirmed and pulled away.

“I think I’ll take you up on that coffee now.” He said.

“Hot chocolate.” Jamie corrected. “I don’t think they sell coffee.”

Jack blinked owlishly at him, and nodded, looking put out. “Fuck off, I meant hot chocolate.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry.” Jack waved his hands, as though trying to shake them dry, and puffed out his cheeks. “I’m just. Chest hurts. It’s nothing.”

“Er. Okay.” Jamie put his hands in his pockets, watching with concern as Jack shuffled, looking agitated. “I think we should call it a day after this.” He suggested in a soft voice. The atmosphere between them had been heavy ever since the drive over; he’d been feeling anxious all afternoon, and now he understood. Jack was nervous, and it was making him feel strung up too.

“No. Fuck. What is with you today?”

“Jack…” Jamie reached forward, but when he put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, he flinched back, eyebrows crinkling. “Hey, nothing’s with me. Are you alright?”

“Yes! God. Yes.”

“Let’s just go home.”

Jack closed his eyes and rolled his head back, fed up. “Okay, whatever. We drove out here for nothing.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Jamie snapped, irritation rising, but quickly dissipating when Jack looked taken aback. “Sorry. I-“

“No. Let’s just go.”

With a flustered sound, Jamie followed Jack as he limped hurriedly away, watching his back, confused. One minute they’d been joking, tense, sure, but light hearted enough; and now Jack was stalking away with his fist curled.

When they reached the car, Jack pulled impatiently at the handle, looking frustrated, blinking fast. Jamie walked over and unlocked the door, held it open for him while he stumbled in with a huff and pulled his travel blanket over his head.

“Do you have a headache?” He asked when he’d settled into the driver’s side.

“Yes.” Jack growled. “I always fucking do.”

Jamie reached tentatively over the back of the seat and settled his arm over Jack’s shoulders. “We’ll pick up some gummy bears on the way home.”

Jack heaved a sigh, curling in on himself. “This is embarrassing.” He whispered.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It feels okay, sometimes, but it’s not.” He shifted so his shoulder rested just barely against Jamie’s, and let the blanket fall into his lap, eyes averted. “I’ve just been forgetting things.” He confessed. “It’s almost scary.”

Jamie bit his lip, but was silent, leaving space for him to continue.

“It’s just stupid things, like that hot chocolate or whatever. It doesn’t even matter. But still. It builds up, you know?” He paused. “I can’t remember our phone number.”

“Have you told the doctor?” was all Jamie could bring himself to whisper. He felt a bit frightened himself, hearing that Jack was having symptoms like that.

“It’s normal.” Jack answered, “But it still… freaks me out. I overreacted. But that’s why.”

Jamie nodded, rubbing at his boyfriend’s shoulder, and started the car. “I, uh. I’m glad you told me.”

“But I should’ve told you sooner. I know. It’s kinda hard to get out.”

“On your own time, then.” Jamie answered.

They pulled away from the parking lot and onto the highway, Jack still leaning over, resting his cheek against Jamie’s clavicle so his hair tickled his ears. “Maybe we should try alternative medicine.” He murmured after a few moments.

“Uh. Sure?”

“Like, I’m pretty sure making out is a pain reliever.”

“Jack.”

“Shh. Jamie, I’m serious. I read it in Cosmo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack, you should never admit to reading terrible magazines >: But Jack reading Cosmo is my new favourite headcanon. Don't fight it.
> 
> I'm happy with this chapter and simultaneously really unhappy somehow. I feel so apologetic today ahaha. Quick, someone tell me what's good so I feel better and what's bad so I can fix myself c:


End file.
